


My Seeming Self Again

by Lauralot



Series: I But A Shell of Myself [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Communication, Coping, Eating Disorders, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Instability, Negotiations, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You used to call me honey," Bucky says.  "I thought you wanted me to be sweet."</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Seeming Self Again

“Bucky.”

Bucky isn’t looking at the wall. That’s the way his eyes are pointed, but Steve can tell he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see anything. At least, anything in this room. Wherever Bucky is, it’s not at the dinner table. He’s miles away and the spoon’s gone still in his soup.

Bucky eats mostly soups now: clear broths so he can see that there aren’t parts of corpses floating in his food. Steve remembers his own knuckles, white on the arms of his chair, remembers the bile rising in his throat when Bucky told the therapist that he feared poison or body parts in his dishes. No one at HYDRA had made him eat those things, he said. But he saw them anyway. So now he eats soup that was prepared in front of him—with beans for protein because the sight of meat turns his stomach—or shakes that he and Steve made and froze in advance in case Bucky couldn’t focus enough to watch Steve cook.

Sometimes Bucky cooks too. He’s allowed to stir and dump the vegetables and beans into the pot. He doesn’t want to touch knives.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats.

Behind lank strands of greasy hair, Bucky’s eyes flick to regard him. “Huh?”

“You went away for a while, space cadet,” Tony says. “Where’d you go?”

“Volos.” Bucky stirs the spoon in his spoon but makes no move to bring it to his mouth. “There was a window. I had my rifle.”

“Buck.” Steve waits until Bucky’s eyes are back on him before he speaks again. “Where are you now? What are you doing?”

“I’m at the table,” Bucky says. “I’m eating lunch.”

But he doesn’t take another bite.

*

The rules are taped up beside Bucky’s bed, where others might hang posters or photographs. Dr. Worth said they needed to be right where Bucky could see them every morning. Whatever dreams he has, they’ll help to ground him when he wakes. Steve put a copy in his own bedroom as well because sometimes Bucky sleeps there. The rules are printed on a cream-colored paper, spelled out in a navy blue ink. Steve couldn’t bear the thought of a stark black and white laminated sheet, as if this were a hospital or prison.

They’re nothing like the rules a prison would have: things like “Bathe at least every other day (Wet wipes and dry shampoo are permitted)” and “Change clothes once a day (Changing into clean pajamas is permitted).” But it still feels so clinical, so antithetical to the spontaneous Bucky he used to know.

Bucky can’t be spontaneous anymore. He needs the days of the week printed on his underwear, or he’d spend hours staring, frightened of punishment if he chose the wrong pair.

Steve used to tell him there was no wrong choice. He hates himself for not realizing that Bucky didn’t understand that.

Bucky sets down the brush on his nightstand. There are streaks of dry shampoo on his shoulders, but his hair isn’t plastered to his scalp anymore.

“You look great,” Steve says.

He always does, even now that he’s so thin it makes Steve’s chest ache. But beyond that, Bucky views his hygiene as a mission. He has to have proper feedback.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s frowning.

“What do you need?” It’s an easier question for Bucky than asking what’s the matter. Steve learned after Bucky tried to kill Tony that he’s been saying everything wrong this whole time. Even now that he has Bucky back, all Steve’s done is fail him.

“You used to call me honey,” Bucky says.

Steve flushes and nods. “I didn’t know how to talk to you. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.” And he hadn’t figured it out, had he? It took Bucky’s therapist spelling it out for him.

“Why did you call me that?” Bucky’s eyes find his. He looks curious. If it weren’t for his sharp cheekbones and flat mouth, he’d look just the way he used to before everything went to hell.

“I’m sorry.” His face is burning now. “I’m so stupid—I wanted to make sure you knew that I loved you, Buck. HYDRA treated you like an object for so long, and I didn’t want you to think I was the same way. I wanted you to know that I cared. I wanted it so much that I didn’t realize how patronizing it was. Like if I just acted like everything was okay, it would be.”

Bucky seems to consider this. At least, his eyes don’t leave Steve’s face. “I thought you wanted me to be sweet.”

Of course he’d thought terms of endearment were implicit orders. Steve’s going to spend the rest of his life atoning for his failures and still never feel that he’s made it up to Bucky. “I’m sorry that I made you think you had to act a certain way. I won’t do it ever again.”

“But—” Bucky stops, biting his lip and lowering his eyes. Waiting for punishment for questioning his handler.

Steve resists the urge to hug him tight and promise that no one will ever hurt him again. He tried that for a whole month. Bucky never got any better. “But what, Bucky? You can say whatever you need to. Remember?” He taps the list of rules. “There aren’t any punishments for clarifying or expressing yourself.”

“I liked it,” Bucky whispers. “They never called him that. And there’s no—” He flaps his hands as though he’s lost the word. There’s frustration growing on his face, so Steve quickly speaks.

“I can call you that again if you want me to, Buck. But it has to be something you want, okay? Not just something you think will make me happy. You’re allowed to want. It’s—” He hates saying it. “It’s within your parameters.”

Bucky’s silent for a long while. It’s hard for him to determine where his thoughts end and the world around him begins. _My head is full of spiders,_ he told Dr. Worth once. _They spin webs onto everything and everyone and I get lost. I don’t mind sometimes. The webs are pretty._

“I liked it,” he says.

“Okay, honey.”

*

“How are you?” Sam asks, and Steve all but shoves the water bottle to his lips to buy time.

Sam’s still in New York. The pretense is that Tony offered to make him new wings, and Sam has to hang around to test them and give input on the design. The truth is that’s he’s here to keep an eye on Steve. Because Sam thinks caring for Bucky is bad for him. He thinks Steve can’t handle it.

“Bucky’s doing so much better,” Steve says, wiping his mouth. Bucky’s back at the tower with Pepper. He’s struggling too much with getting the right amount of calories to lose any by going on runs. Pepper recruited Bucky to help with her gardening. Dr. Worth said watching the progress of the plants could help Bucky better grasp the passage of time without the interference of cryofreeze. And it could give Bucky another hold to anchor him in the present.

Steve always smiles at Bucky’s plants and tries not hate himself for failing to anchor his friend.

“He’s only refused a meal once this week,” Steve goes on. “And he’s finished every other one. And yesterday, JARVIS startled him by mistake, and he didn’t even—”

“Steve.” Sam always sees through his bullshit. Just like Bucky used to do. “I’m glad he’s making progress. But you need to take care of yourself too.”

“I take care of myself.” He isn’t the one who can’t summon the resolve to shower. Who can’t remember that JARVIS and Zola aren’t the same system, who can’t understand the difference between a handler and a friend.

“Your whole world’s revolved around Bucky ever since you realized he was still alive,” Sam says. He’s drenched in sweat and panting, but he still sounds so composed. “You have to be able to take time for yourself. You found Bucky a doctor. You need to find someone you can talk to.”

“I talk to you.” Steve bristles at the suggestion, a pang of guilt following immediately after. Like seeing a therapist is something shameful. It would kill Bucky if he thought Steve felt that way.

“I won’t be here forever. I’m going back to DC sooner or later.”

_Don’t_. Steve has to bite back the plea. _Stay. I need you._

“You’re gonna have to find someone so that you can get things off your chest. And also a new running buddy, ‘cause I doubt most shrinks are up for that.”

Steve shakes his head. He can make speeches to inspire SHIELD to fight against HYDRA, but he can’t find the words for this. “I can’t just sit in a room every week and complain about Bucky.” What sort of friend would that make him?

“Why not?”

He can only stare.

“You think if you just don’t talk about it, it’ll keep you from resenting him?” There’s pity in Sam’s eyes, not judgment. “Steve. Keeping your anger bottled up is only going to make it worse.”

“I’m not angry at Bucky—”

“He stabbed a knife through your hand,” Sam says.

“He was afraid that—”

“He tried to kill Tony.”

“He thought Tony was Howard! He was trying to avoid torture for failing a mission.” Steve does feel anger now, surging and hot and strangely righteous. Bucky’s acting out from trauma, not malice. Why can’t Sam see that?

“Whenever Bucky’s angry, he tells you something awful about his captivity just to hurt you, man.”

“He doesn’t know how to express his emotions!” He’s almost shouting, but Steve doesn’t care enough to lower his voice. “He wasn’t allowed to acknowledge them for a lifetime! So forgive him if he doesn’t pick up on appropriate behavior right after—”

“I’m not telling you to cut Bucky out of your life,” Sam says. “I’m not saying he’s a bad person. He’s sick. But that doesn’t make him any less frustrating or tiring or just _painful_ to be around, Steve. And you have to have someone to vent to or you’ll end up resenting him. Every misbehavior, every way he’s different from the Bucky you used to know—you’ll hate him for it, and then you’ll hate yourself for that, and in the end you’ll just feel obligated to carry this burden, and there’s no way Bucky won’t sense that.”

“I’ll never hate him.” Not for a second.

“I hated Riley,” Sam says.

Steve turns to look at him.

“Not now. But I did. As much as I hated myself for watching helplessly when he died, I hated him. He’d avoided RPGs before. Why wasn’t he paying better attention? How could he leave me like that? Make me _watch_ that? Like it was his fault I had nightmares. It was senseless. And that didn’t stop me for a second.”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what else he can say to that.

Sam shrugs. “You don’t need to be. I’m better now. But I didn’t get over it on my own.” Then he stops walking, turning to face Steve, so that the people behind them have to step around. “Steve, listen. If you can’t see a doctor for your own sake, at least make an appointment for Bucky’s. Trust me. It’ll hurt him in the long run if you don’t.”

*

“Steve.”

Peggy’s voice. She’s here and she’s _young_ , dressed for a dance.

“Steve.” Her hand finds his. Peggy’s smiling, laughing, but instead of leading him in the steps he never learned, she steers him toward a table. Bucky’s there. His hair is short and both of the hands resting on the tablecloth are made of flesh. Bucky smiles too, and a piece of Steve that he didn’t realize had been missing shoves back into place, so fast and forceful that it hurts. But it’s pleasant at the same time.

“Steve,” Bucky says. “Sir.”

Steve opens his eyes.

The bedroom is dark, but he can still make out Bucky’s form above him, hair dangling down less than a foot away from Steve’s face. Steve tenses. He won’t jump. He won’t hit Bucky.

“Sir.” Bucky’s voice is urgent, almost frantic.

“My name is Steve, Bucky.” It might be more grounding if Steve turns on the lights, but he doesn’t want to startle Bucky. “You don’t have to call me sir. I’m not a handler. Can you tell me where you are?”

“The door’s locked and the elevator won’t open.” One of Bucky’s hands is twisting through his hair. Steve wants to reach up and stop him before he can rip any out, but he can’t risk setting Bucky off. “I can’t get out.”

“I know, Buck,” Steve says. He’s the one who asked for their floor to be closed off at night. The doors will open in case of emergencies, but other than that, they’re locked in. That’s been the system ever since Bucky tried to kill Tony. And usually Bucky knows that. “It’s to keep us safe. Why do you want to go out?”

“It’s not safe here!” Bucky’s voice is teary. He must be so frightened; usually he’d rather die before showing such a perceived weakness. “They’ll lock me up and I won’t see you anymore!”

“Bucky. Bucky, look at me.”

He catches the faint gleam of Bucky’s eyes in the dark. What feels like a tear drips onto his face.

“No one is coming to take you away,” Steve says firmly. “Take a deep breath.”

It’s more like a sob.

“I’m going to turn on the light,” Steve says. “When I do, I want you to look around and tell me five things that you see. Do you understand?”

“I—” Another choked breath. “I understand.”

The lights come on. Bucky’s face is red and blotchy with tears, and he ducks his head down to hide it. “Pillows,” he mutters. “Shield. Clock. Nightstand. Lamp.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Keep breathing.” He shifts out from under Bucky’s arms, sitting up. “You’re here, Bucky. I won’t let anyone take you away. I promise. And JARVIS would let us know if anyone were trying to get in, honey. Who do you think wants to lock you up?”

“Stark said that SHIELD could get around JARVIS.” Bucky’s hands are twisting through his hair again. “The agent that you made leave said he was going to get me.”

Steve wants to hug him so badly that it actually hurts, limbs aching and throat dry. “Bucky. Let go of your hair, Buck.”

Bucky jerks his hands away. Then he sits on them, maybe to keep from doing it again.

“It’s true that SHIELD overrode JARVIS once in the past,” Steve says. “But that was a long time ago. JARVIS has changed since then, and that includes his security. And after that happened, Tony hacked into SHIELD’s files, all right? Now he knows a lot more about the resources that they have. He’ll keep them out, and even if they got in somehow, we’re way up in the tower. We’d all know they were coming, and Tony would send his suits to stop them. Okay?”

There’s no answer. Bucky’s breathing is a little calmer, but he’s still so tense, drawn in like a cable about to snap.

“It’s all right to feel scared.” Bucky’s so convinced that it isn’t, most of the time, and Steve doesn’t want him berating himself for his feelings on top of his panic. “I just want to know what I can do to help you feel less scared, sweetheart.”

It’s a long while before Bucky speaks, and when he does, Steve has to lean in to hear. “I want to hold your hand.”

Steve nods, placing it just beside Bucky on the mattress.

The shake of the head that follows is so sudden and vehement that Steve can’t help but draw back.

“Other hand,” Bucky whispers.

He puts his left hand out, and Bucky squeezes tight.

“You can sleep in here if that will make you feel better,” Steve says.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s still holding onto Steve, now with both hands, but his fingers are trailing over the back of Steve’s hand, stroking at the scar tissue where Bucky drove his knife in.

“Buck? Are you tired?”

“I did that,” Bucky murmurs. His fingers are so light and cold over the scarring.

Bucky’s always been fixated on that wound, tugging at the bandages and squeezing Steve’s hand while it was still healing. He’s never shown an interest in the places where he shot Steve on the helicarrier. Maybe because they’re older.

Steve turns his hand palm-up, gently holding Bucky’s fingers. “I’m not mad about that, Bucky. You don’t need to feel bad.”

“It’s not bad.” In Steve’s grip, Bucky’s fingertips are still grazing over the scar on his palm.

“That’s right. I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

“I helped you get free.” Bucky’s eyes are far away, far enough that Steve needs to get his attention. Tell him to describe his surroundings or list every red object in the room. Anything. But he’s exhausted and Bucky’s smiling, and he’s not fast enough.

“I helped.” Bucky sounds as if he’s chanting to himself. “You needed to get down and you’re my friend and I gave you the knife. I helped and you have this and now I’ll always know it’s you.” He’s petting the scar, an easy, tiny smile on his face.

Of course Bucky thinks he saved Steve. When he’d been the one hanging from the ceiling, hurting and scared, no one had given Bucky a knife. No one had given him the means to free himself.

It used to be that if it even looked like somebody might start shit with Steve, Bucky would be there to kick their ass. And now he stabs Steve with knives and considers it helping.

There are tears on Steve’s face again.

*

Salad is new.

They tried introducing it weeks ago, before they realized Bucky’s food issues were about what he perceived was in the food rather than what was actually there. Pepper had thought it would be mild enough for a sensitive stomach.

Bucky had spent an hour carefully laying each piece of lettuce on the table. Looking, Steve understands now, for any horrors that might be lurking underneath. Once he was done with that, he insisted on washing off all of the dressing and removing anything red.

There’s red around Bucky’s mouth now, and Steve resists the urge to wipe it away.

“I like tomatoes,” Bucky announces. He might be talking to himself; he hasn’t looked up from his plate.

He used to hate tomatoes. Steve remembers the time that Bucky proudly swaggered onto the playground and told his classmates of the punishment he got the night prior after he threw his tomatoes on the floor rather than cleaning his plate. He’d sounded so pleased with himself, as if he were a prisoner of war who’d refused to crack under torture.

Maybe the tomatoes here are better than what Bucky’s parents used to buy. Or maybe Bucky’s palate has changed over the years. Or it could be that he just likes these tomatoes because he was the one who grew them.

Bucky had been watering the tomato plants when Steve left to see the therapist that Dr. Worth recommended. He was in the rooftop greenhouse, carefully examining the leaves for any sign of decay or damage.

“I’m going to go now, Bucky,” Steve had said. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, okay? Sam, Pepper, and Tony will be here if you need anything. And if you really need me, you can call. Okay?”

Bucky had nodded without looking up from his plants. His fingers were trailing over the ripe fruit, as entranced as he’d been the other night with Steve’s scar. He probably viewed gardening with that same contentment. They were both things he’d made, after all.

“These are great tomatoes, Bucky,” Tony says around a mouthful of greens. “And I’d know. I’m Italian.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve catches a glimpse of a smile on his face before Bucky sticks his fork into his mouth.

“I’m putting him in charge of all the tomatoes from here on out,” Pepper says. “I can never get them to taste like anything out of season. Not like this.”

“Thanks, Bucky,” Sam adds.

Still focused on his salad, Bucky doesn’t seem to hear them. Every now and again, he glances at the watch that his therapist suggested he should wear. It lists both the time and date. He’s probably making sure that he’s not about to miss _The Young and the Restless_. Steve has no idea why he finds a soap opera of all things so enchanting, but better questionable taste in television than attempted murder.

Bucky keeps his head down as he eats, his hair dangling against his plate. Steve reaches out to tuck it back before he can stop himself, and thankfully Bucky doesn’t pull away. Steve isn’t sure if he even noticed.

Bucky’s hair is still damp and wavy. He took a shower just before lunch.

It was Steve’s idea. On the drive back from the therapist, there was a billboard advertising an aquatic center, and just like that, Steve had set his GPS for the nearest sporting supply store.

Once he’d found a letter from Bucky folded up in a HYDRA base, sticking out from under a doorstop. _They would hose him down in freezing water after missions,_ it had read. _They laughed when he tried to get away._

Bucky’s never mentioned that since. And while there’s no shortage of issues contributing to his aversion to bathing—not caring for himself for decades, short attention span, lack of energy during depressive spells—Steve can’t imagine that such exposure and discomfort isn’t lurking in the back of Bucky’s mind somewhere. After all, the memory stuck deep enough to be written down.

Steve’s first act upon returning to the tower was to find Bucky and give him the bathing suit.

It’s a unitard style, like a combination of compression shorts and an undershirt. The kind swimmers wear during some competitions.

“You can shower in it,” Steve had explained. “Water and soap will pass through the fabric, and this way, if you don’t want to take everything off to shower, you don’t have to.”

Bucky had frowned a little, taking the suit, and walked straight into the bathroom. He stared at the tub and the shower seat inside it. Steve had insisted on that. If Bucky dissociated or was otherwise distracted in the shower, then Steve wanted to lessen the risk that he could slip and hurt himself.

“This isn’t how normal people take showers,” Bucky had said. In the past couple of weeks, he’d started to take interest in what other people did and considered normal. One the one hand, it meant that he actually cared about society and possibly reconnecting to it. On the other hand, it made moments like this that much more difficult.

“But do you think you’d like it?” Steve had pressed.

Bucky was quiet for a minute. That minute stretched into two, then three. He’d stared from the bathing suit to the shower and then back to the suit, over and over.

Finally, he’d spoken. “It’s not normal. But it still works, right? And that’s good?”

Steve had smiled. “Yeah, honey. That’s good.”


End file.
